


Scattered Illumination

by CorvidFeathers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On any other night Feuilly would have been right along with them, throwing himself into the fray of discussion as the conversation ebbed and flowed over every topic under the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scattered Illumination

The evening had started alright.

Feuilly had made it to the meeting early, despite the long walk from the workshop to the Musain and the lingering ache in his lungs that made breathing a struggle. He settled himself down in the back room, slowly drinking the one cup of wine he could afford to indulge in, and waiting for his friends to appear.

He was down to dregs by the time Combeferre appeared, his portfolio of insect drawings under his arm and his clothing rumpled. He muttered something breathless about a specimen of moth that had appeared when he had been putting his boots on; Feuilly had admired the precise lines of his drawing, trying to dismiss the faint headache that was beginning to accompany the ache in his lungs and tick of the clock as the hour grew later.

The rest of the Amis trickled in at the speed of drying paint, each with an excuse that was perfectly valid to their behavior, but Feuilly couldn’t dampen the sparks of irritation that kindled in his chest. It was perfectly fine for Jehan or Courfeyrac to stay up to all hours of the night, and shun their classes, but it was harder for him to work through the day with no sleep. 

He had fought beside these men and felt with every confidence that they could tear down the corrupt systems and build them anew… but gathering them together and getting them to all contemplate one topic was rather like herding cats. On any other night he would have been right along with them, throwing himself into the fray of discussion as the conversation ebbed and flowed over every topic under the sun. 

Tonight the ache in his chest and the increasing pressure between his eyes, coupled with the dread of suffering through another day painstakingly painting fans while his head spun and his hands shook, drew him into silence. Each sharp retort or witty remark was a spike of pain in his head, until he longed for the cold silence of his rooms.

At last Enjolras stumbled in, sporting a black eye and a winding tale of his misadventures with a police inspector and a rather suspicious monarchist law student. He told his tale as he gave speeches, with grand gestures and flowing words, his eyes sparkling with a rare sort of mirth. It drew the attention of the entire room, and Feuilly’s silence was left unquestioned.

It felt as if the room was growing smaller. He rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes against the glow of the lamplight and trying to focus on breathing. The ache in his chest had grown sharper as the evening wore on, and he muffled his coughing his sleeve. Each cough shook his throbbing head, sending little bursts of pain up through his temples. 

The words that… someone… was speaking were just an incoherent mess of syllables, harsh and grating against his ears. Why had he worn his coat? He thought it was cold… cold outside, cold in his frigid little apartment… but he was burning up. Feuilly fumbled ineffectually with the buttons, his hands thick and clumsy. 

This triggered enough coughing fit, one that he didn’t have time to muffle. Enjolras broke off talking for a moment, looking over at him in concern.

“Feuilly?” he murmured gently, reaching over to rest a hand on his shoulder. Feuilly met his worried blue eyes for a moment, then looked away. The light reflected off his hair hurt his eyes. “Are you all right Feuilly?”

The question was taken up by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the other two sitting close to him. He closed his eyes. “Please stop talking,” he murmured, barely audible. “Please.” His voice was louder.

Enjolras called something to the others, and finally, there was silence. 

Feuilly opened his eyes, murmuring an apology, and stood up. A moment later he toppled over into Enjolras’s lap.

***

Feuilly woke with a start, scrambling for his brushes, the horrible dread that was already late echoing in the back of his mind. The light was shining through the curtains and — those weren’t his curtains. The bedside table was a far cry for the rickety stool that accompanied the bed back in his rooms. And he realized that the bed beneath him was far softer than his.

With a different sort of dread he looked up to find Enjolras perched in the chair beside what was undoubtedly his bed. At the sound of movement he woke, looking up at Feuilly blearily. 

“Feuilly,” he murmured, reaching over to press his hand against Feuilly’s forehead. He seemed satisfied with what he had found, and sat back in his chair. “Your fever broke.”

Feuilly blinked. He had no recollection of the hours between the meeting and… oh. He blushed. “I… I didn’t mean to… inconvenience…”

Enjolras cut him off with a vehement shake of his head. “You didn’t inconvenience anyone,” he said. “We were worried about you. I’m still worried about you.” A gentler smile then Feuilly had ever seen on his features crossed Enjolras’s lips. “You’d benefit from a few hours’ more rest. Combeferre’d like to keep you here for a week, but your job-“

Feuilly started, cursing himself for forgetting for a moment. “Enjolras, thank you but I’ve got to get to the workshop I’m already-“

He was halfway out of the bed before Enjolras caught his arm. “Grantaire is taking care of it.”

“Grantaire… is taking care of it,” Feuilly repeated suspiciously. 

“I sent Jehan around to pick up the fans you had to paint for today. You work out of your rooms sometimes, don’t you? And Jehan and you often walk to meetings together — I assumed your employer has seen him before. Grantaire will paint them and bring them here for your inspection this afternoon.” What might have been a grin tugged at the corners of Enjolras’s lips. “Grantaire is many things, but no one can doubt his skill with paint.”

Feuilly was left speechless. “Enjolras, I… I can’t accept…”

Enjolras clasped his arm. “You’re important to our cause, my friend, and to all of us. We don’t wish to see you waste away for lack of a few days’ rest. It’s no more than we’d do for any of us.”

Fatigue was settling in on his limbs again, and Enjolras’s bed looked warm and inviting. Reluctantly he let Enjolras help him back into it. His friend took up his post beside the bed once more, picking up a book he had left on the table. Feuilly caught the curve of the R in a title that undoubtedly involved Robespierre.

“Enjolras?” he said softly, after a few moments of silence.

“Yes?”

“I… could you…” he stuttered, glancing at the book.

Enjolras caught his meaning. “Of course.” He began to read.

Feuilly was carried off to sleep by a voice that glowed with passion, speaking of revolutions past and revolutions rising with the sun.


End file.
